The people of our tale were like men walking together in a coppice; they had but glimpses of each others' minds. But to Isaac behind his flower-pots they were a little human chart spread out flat before him, and not a region in it he had not traveled and surveyed before to-day: what to others passed for accident to him was design; he penetrated more than one disguise of manner; and above all his intelligence bored like a center-bit into the deep heart of his enemy, Meadows, and at each turn of the center-bit his eye flashed, his ear lived, and he crouched patient as a cat, keen as a lynx. He was forgotten, but not by all. Meadows, a cautious man, was the one to ask himself, “Where is that old heathen, and what is he doing?” To satisfy himself, Meadows had come smoothly to the door of the little apartment, and burst suddenly into it. There he found the reverend Israelite extended on a little couch, a bandana handkerchief thrown over his face, calmly reposing. Meadows paused, eyed him keenly, listened to his gentle but audible, equable breathing, relieved his mind by shaking his fist at him, and went out. Thirty seconds later Isaac _awoke!_ spat in the direction of Meadows, and crouched again behind the innocent flowers, patient as a cat, keen as a lynx. So then; when George was gone in, William Fielding and Mr. Meadows both felt a sudden need of being alone; each longed to indulge some feeling he did not care the other should see; so they both turned their faces away from each other and strolled apart. Isaac Levi caught both faces off their guard, and read the men as by a lightning flash to the bottom line of their hearts. For two hours he had followed the text, word by word, deed by deed, letter by letter, and now a comment on that text was written in these faces. That comment said that William was rejoiced at George's departure and ashamed of himself for the feeling. That Meadows rejoiced still more and was ashamed anybody should know he had the feeling. Isaac withdrew from his lair; his task was done. “Those men both love that woman, and this Meadows loves her with all his soul, and she-aha!” and triumph flashed from under his dark brows. But at his age calm is the natural state of the mind and spirits; he composed himself for the present, and awaited an opportunity to strike his enemy with effect. The aged man had read Mr. Meadows aright; under that modulated exterior raged as deep a passion as ever shook a strong nature. For some time he had fought against it. “She is another man's sweetheart,” he had said to himself; “no good will come of courting her.” But by degrees the flax bonds of prudence snapped one by one as the flame every now and then darted at them. Meadows began to reason the matter coolly.